Chapter 13: Chapter Thirteen

RAE

“Sorry, Shawn. I have to run.”

I’ve already got one foot out of my cubicle when he’s rambling about promoting LinkedIn posts.

“No, really, Shawn. I’m meeting Logan for a shoot.”

“Rae, you forgot your camera!” he calls.

I peek out the window. It’s drizzling. Wonderful.

“Uh, thanks,” I mumble, setting my most prized possession in its waterproof case.

I don’t give him the chance to say anything else and rush into Logan’s office instead, which, thankfully, is empty. I guess people don’t barge in on the CFO all that often.

I remove the overcoat from the back of his chair, check the pockets for keys, and hurry back outside before anyone can ask what the weird photographer is doing in Logan Quincy’s office.

Pioneer Park is a few minutes from the office. Zoe goes jogging here sometimes, but she has to carry pepper spray. It’s gotten kind of sketchy in the past few years.

I don’t think I’ve ever come on a weekday before.

Logan is slumped on a bench, staring at his feet. I panic as I hand him the jacket. Does he want me to stay? Probably not.

I take a deep, chilly breath and gather my courage. “Want some company, or do you rather be alone?”

~Smooth, Rae. Do you rather be alone?~

Logan looks up. “I’d rather not be alone. Do you mind?”

“Of course.”

The sky opens up above us, but the raindrops don’t faze Logan in the slightest. His hood is still dangling over the back of the bench. I try to suppress my shivers.

He obviously needs someone by his side right now. I don’t want him to think I’m uncomfortable, even though I’m dangerously close to teeth-chattering territory.

Also, I’m entirely unsure about what I should be doing right now, which is dangerous because uncertainty sends me spiraling into panic mode.

I have to do something, but I don’t know what. This is high-stakes uncertainty.

The next thing I know, my arms are around Logan’s shoulders. It’s an awkward hug, a painfully awkward hug. “Sorry,” I mumble as I unlatch my arms. “That was sup—”

“No, stay.” His voice is low and soft and sad.

I return my arms and rest my head on his shoulder.

I feel like he should be the one ~resting~ ~his~ head, since he’s the one having an emotional crisis, but it’s too late to go back now. “I’m here if you want to talk about it.” I pause. “Or if you don’t.”

“I appreciate that. You have no idea.”

I think about what Zoe would do in this situation. Probably pour a couple glasses of wine.

She’d also force me to talk about whatever was bothering me, but I don’t do that. I don’t force people to do things.

“My dad has cancer,” he murmurs.

“Oh,” I cough out. “Oh. I’m so sorry, Logan. That’s awful.”

“Stage four brain cancer.”

My stomach turns to ice. I don’t know much about cancer or any disease that isn’t depression or anxiety, but I do know that brain cancer is bad and that stage four is really bad.

“I’m so sorry,” I repeat. “You found out today?”

“Yeah, just now. He’s stepping down in two weeks. Transitioning the role to me. CEO.”

“Oh, Logan. I’m so sorry. That’s… That’s a lot to take in all at once.”

I know my words aren’t profound, and Logan might think I sound dumb, but I learned from the therapist I saw in high school that acknowledgment of pain is sometimes the most important thing.

Legitimizing your feelings is the first step toward healing, she would say. Logan might be beating himself up internally for being worried about the job when he just found out his dad has cancer, but he shouldn’t.

“It really is.” He stands abruptly and pulls me to my feet. “Tell Shawn and your boss you’re going off campus to talk strategy with the CFO. Meet me in the parking garage. I’ll bring you to my place. That alright with you?”

~Ugh. That demanding voice~. “Oh! Yeah, sure.”

***

Shawn pokes his head into my cubicle when I return to the office. “You’re soaked.”

~Well, yeah.~ “Yeah, it’s raining.”

He smiles. “It sure is. We’re supposed to have a meeting with Taylor in half an hour.”

“Oh, uh, I’m meeting Logan off campus. Again. He wanted to talk strategy, but it was, uh, getting loud in here.” I glance around the silent office. “It quieted down, I guess.”

~Insert forced laugh here~. “He’s waiting, though. Should… Should I tell Taylor?”

Shawn furrows his brows. “No, I can. Have fun.”

“Thanks, Shawn.” I stuff my camera case into my bag and scurry to the elevator, avoiding eye contact with the people passing by.

Logan is waiting by the elevator in the parking garage.

I didn’t realize I have an awkward car ride ahead of me—my social anxiety always flares up when I’m in the car for reasons I do not understand—until I’m in the passenger seat, fiddling with my necklace and biting my lip.

“Thanks, Rae.” The fire I saw in Logan’s eyes last night is burning in them again, and I wonder if that’s what he wants. A distraction fuck?

I swallow. “Of course.”

He’s silent most of the drive, and I don’t try to make conversation. Instead, I analyze possible reasons why Logan asked me to come to the park and his apartment.

My first theory is probably correct. I’m definitely a distraction fuck. Either that, or he knows I won’t judge him, no matter his emotional state.

I’m a mess, so I don’t judge other messes. Mess code one-o-one.

It’s probably a combination of the two.

Luckily, Logan doesn’t live far from Quincy Ventures. But I guess that’s kind of unlucky too, because I’m shaking in anticipation of whatever’s to come as I walk inside. More so, I have no idea what I want.

Logan’s apartment is ~nice~. Really nice. We step into a sleek, tiled kitchen bordered by a living room area with modern furniture and a massive TV built into the wall. Everything is black and white with red accents.

“I like the décor,” I blurt out.

He smiles. “Thanks, Rae. Want anything to drink?”

~Yes. All your alcohol~. “Sure. What do you have?” ~Shit~. That sounded much politer in my head. “Oh, my God. I’m sorry. That came off as so rude…” My face is burning. Maybe I shouldn’t have anything with alcohol. It might ignite.

“I don’t think it was rude. I’ve got water, coffee, beer—” He opens the fridge “—hard cider, Gatorade. Any of that sound good?”

~Bless. Alcohol~. “Cider would be great. Thanks.”

Logan cracks two ciders and gestures for me to sit on the couch. I toss as much back as I can in one gulp. When I look up, he’s laughing.

“Thirsty?” he teases.

I grin, hoping I look sly and not idiotic. If I do, Logan doesn’t seem bothered. He slides next to me, sinking into the couch and tilting his head up at the ceiling.

I chug more cider, very much in need of some bravery only the deities of ethanol alcohol can bestow upon me.

“Thanks again for coming,” he sighs. “You’re… You’re very sweet, Rae.”

My cheeks are heating up. Hell, all of me is heating up. It’s a basic compliment, and I’m in desperate need of a fan or an ice cube-filled dunk tank. “Wow. Uh, thanks, Logan. You are too.”

He scoffs.

~Cue uncharacteristic bravery~. “You don’t believe me?”

“I believe you think I’m sweet.”

I shrug. “I believe I’m right.”

“Well, thanks. You’re the first person who’s ever told me that.”

I return his scoff. “No way.” ~Look at me go~!

“Maybe there’s something about you that brings it out in me.”

“I think that makes me right.” I’m really on a hot streak today.

He chuckles. “I guess so. You just… You have a way of seeing the best in people. You reassured Dylan in that meeting instead of giving a snippy response.

“You were dancing with Courtney the other night after…” He gestures awkwardly to try and sum up the most devastating night of my life. “Most people would have tried to strangle her. It’s refreshing to be around you.” He smiles at me.

He pauses to sip his cider. He, unlike me, is drinking at a leisurely pace.

“It’s nice to be around someone who makes me feel seen, you know, like you’re seeing the good parts of me. I’m rambling,” he sighs.

I knew it. He wanted to spend his shitty day with the girl who won’t judge him. I’m broken, and a broken person isn’t going to think less of someone else whose world was shattered to pieces.

That “no judgment” aura is the black hole that exists inside my body, sucking every ounce of optimism and happiness and pleasure out of my existence.

My actions might be sweet, sure, but they’re not fueled by an inner Mother Theresa. Depression and anxiety are the real reasons I act this way.

Logan doesn’t know it, and maybe he really does believe I’m sweet, but that doesn’t change the fact that my inner demons—my inability to stand up for myself, my compulsive need to please others—put him at ease.

“Well, thanks,” I say. It’s too short a response, so I add, “It’s nice you see it that way.”

“Should I see it a different way?”

I shrug. Now isn’t the time to start standing up for myself or educating him on mental illness.

“No, I guess that makes sense. Thanks. That’s, um, a nice compliment. Really. Thanks, Logan.”

He eyes me quizzically, clearly not buying what I’m saying, but he doesn’t call me out.

Good. I like Logan. I like Logan ~a lot~, but liking someone won’t change reality, and the reality is that Logan is comfortable with me for what he sees as valid reasons but are, in fact, the bane of my existence.